Deflower

Chapitre Vingt

How Kyle used to look at Thomas like he had molded the word with his own small hands, with stars in his eyes—as though before him stood not a mere boy but a god—said stars had vanished and solely blood and lust cluttered his irises. And how Thomas used to love Kyle because he was his best friend in the entire world—more, even than how harshly Kyle admired the green pieces of paper he possessed of and the sounds the girls he entertained himself with made when he caressed and shattered them at the same time—he now absolutely hated him. Whilst Lo was for the first time in her life beginning to believe in its existence, love, for Kyle, had gone and in its place had hatred appeared out of the shadows. Kyle denied it, anyway, for his type of love was forbidden and clandestine—so how could he possible be bothered by it, anyway?

Well, Kyle was more than bothered by it whilst the sweet smell of honey and almond cocooned around him per he sat in the kitchen to Thomas' humble home, with his worst enemy—and his first love—to be seated next to him. The lights were dimmed and the small chamber's door was closed; the air being occupied by soft, anxious breathing and heavy glares. Thomas had drawn out a worn out book moments prior. He hadn't looked up at his comrade since, and Kyle felt an inevitable feeling of sadness take over him; the book reminding him of all the hands and hearts that have cherished it, and bygone days that Kyle missed but nonetheless impossibly could return to. Kyle as wished so, though, that he could just turn back time and once more look into Thomas' eyes and see affection within his orbs rather than despicable misery, and he hoped for everything weathered yet undying.

It hadn't been too far from the truth when people stated that teens in the town had an undeniable and overshadowing gray in their lives; and it was as a fact the lavish architecture, the luxuries and the costly Givenchy, Dior, and Chanel pleasures couldn't make it much better. Again assuming the position Kyle was in, there was no way that he could claim against the statement, anyway, for there was no room for figures like him in the society he resided in. Kyle knew that there was something wrong with him, with the thoughts and images that muddled his mind, no matter how often he begged himself to dismiss them; they'd only become a persistent crescendo and stuck in his cognition like a perpetual reminder. Kyle knew he was a flawed individual and that the darkness that enveloped him was a cause of this, but what wasn't wrong, according to him, was whom he harbored feelings for. He couldn't help that his cheeks had stained crimson when Thomas lay a hand upon his shoulder in a manner that was not quite how he wished for it to be.

But Kyle had obligations of his own, and if his love for Thomas stood in the way and had to vanish for it, so be it—his vague envy toward Allistair was much more intense than his immature and confused attraction towards Thomas. Nonetheless, Kyle didn't think he would ever stop loving Thomas. Even if the crimson curtains closed, when his garments were torn at its seams, or even if the saxophone would decrescendo at last. Kyle knew he was a fool, because it was clear that Thomas could never harbor feelings mutual to his. A marionette, was what he would often call himself—even if it was he that had the power to control Thomas' every move. With his bones and soul and flesh and heart strung to his, he couldn't escape from the other boys grip.

When a familiar pair of iridescent eyes looked up at Kyle, and within which Kyle solely recognized fear, Kyle wondered if all this while whilst the longing he'd witnessed since the age of fifteen had only gotten stronger through his vicious games and sordid schemes. It was when he was a mere fourteen year old that he had told a girl whom had grown fond of Thomas that the latter was not interested in her (he was), and it was a year later that Kyle had confessed to Allistair about his peculiar feelings. Well, he hadn't truly; he'd simply asked him, in a joking, manner, how he would react should one of his best comrades like the same sex. Allistair had been deft to answer him, rambling about how he would no minute longer wish to be in his companionship, that he'd even use his fists to beat whichever devil that had possessed him out of his bones. Dubious eyes shamelessly scorched holes into Thomas' pale, tender skin and the smaller boy moved his gaze elsewhere under intent nerves—once more delving into a paragraph of a book he hadn't really been interested in; but it was better than perishing of shame under the watch of Kyle's dark eyes.